Detachments LP out now

Detachments - Detachments LP now on sale in the Thisisnotanexit webstore.

Only 20 copies for the UK so be quick...

http://thisisnotanexitrecords.bigcartel.com/product/detachments-detachments-limited-edition-lp

Don't Touch My Tray

Dear Customer,

It's sweet that you want to help me by taking your own beer off of my tray as I am standing at your table, but don't fucking do it, alright? It does not help me. Here's the deal: I have been waiting tables for a really long time; like since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. Therefore, I have 235 years of experience and I have an amazing ability to balance trays. If you Lucy Goosey take a glass off my tray without letting me adjust where my hand is positioned underneath it, that balance is going to be off and the tray will come crashing down and I will be one pissed off bitch. Don't do that. It's my job so let me do it. Do I show up at your office and try to staple some papers together for you? Or do I try to bag my own groceries? Or pump my own gas? No, I don't because that is your job and I know you are just about the best darn gas pumper this side of the Mississippi.

Also, dear customer, when I am reaching across a table with a martini glass filled to the rim with the sweet luscious nectar called vodka, let me put the goddamn glass down before you try to grab it. I know your greedy alcoholic ass can hardly wait to put your lips on the glass and suck down some love, but gimme a goddamn minute to set it on the table, will ya? If you grab at it, there is a good chance that it will spill and if I waste vodka it will send me into a deep deep (so deep) depression. I will spiral out of control thinking about how many thirsty children there are in famine-ravaged Africa who could have shared that cocktail and here you are wasting it it by grabbing at it and making it spill all over the fucking table. And I have to clean it up too. So it's a double lose. In closing, keep your hands to your self. Don't touch my tray, don't touch shit on my tray and do not touch my ass (unless you can back up that grab with a 30% tip, in which case, feel free.) Please keep these things in mind when you see my approach with my tray, okay? Thank you.

Love,
The Bitchy Waiter


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When I Say It's Hot, It's Hot

Dear Customer:

When I tell you something is hot, please believe me. Just because you see me holding a hot dish does not mean that your fingers have the same super-human strength to withstand heat like mine do. You see, I hold hot plates all the time, so my fingers have built up a tolerance to this silly thing called fire. Is it sad that I no longer have fingerprints? Sure, but it allows me to carry things to your table after they have sat under the heat lamp for twenty minutes and it's all worth it. When your food is ready, the cooks put it "in the window" under this big strong light bulb that will keep things nice and warm until I finally get around to bringing it to your table. It will sit there and sit there until you ask me, "Is our food ready yet?" When you ask me that, it is my cue to bring it to you because as a server I like food to sit in the kitchen for as long as possible until I know you really want it. Consequently, the plate gets really really hot. However, since I have been doing this since I was a fresh-faced young boy of 20, my fingers are callused, bruised tough, angry and rough. They're like my heart.

When I approach your table with steaming piles of nachos, wings or calamari and I say "Be careful the plate is very hot," I mean it. You don't have to reach out and touch it to verify what I said is true because you will more than likely burn your hand and then shoot me an angry look that you will then have to take back because you will realize I just fucking told you the stupid ass plate was hot, you dumb as a bag of hair ass wipe. It's just not hot to me. Please don't be jealous of this amazing talent I have to be able to hold hot things because it is nothing. The cooks in the kitchen can practically reach into a vat of hot oil to pull out french fries. They can stir pots of soup with Their arms. They can light cigarettes just by touching then with the tips of their fingers. They are the true heroes.

In closing, let me say one more time: when I say something is hot, it is hot. Don't touch it. I will laugh at you when you recoil in pain and I won't feel bad about it. i will not try to hide my laugh either. i will say something like, "See, I told you it was hot. What, you didn't believe me? Let me get you some butter to put on that burn, it will make it all better." And then I will laugh again, because putting butter on a burn is an old wives tale. It will make it burn more. If you are dumb enough to ignore my warning about a hot plate, then maybe you will be dumb enough to smear butter on a burn.

love,
The Bitchy Waiter


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Entitled Parents, This Is For You:

It may seem lately that the blog should change its name to "I Hate Babies," but I just can't help it. Maybe it's time I come clean and fully admit that it's the parents I hate. I mean, what did babies ever do to me other than give me the occasional stink eye? I am trying to retrain my brain into knowing that it's the entitled parents who let their spawn become the center of the world.

I went to the green market this morning looking for something to make for dinner tonight. I always hear about how cool and wonderful a Farmer's Market is, but the one in my neighborhood sucks. All they ever have is fresh vegetables and fruits that come right from the farm and jars of honey and jams and shit. I have yet to see anyone selling anything remotely useful like chicken mole enchiladas, fresh tequila or Pizza Rolls. As I was making my way down the sidewalk, I noticed the people ahead of me were parting to make way for someone. "Is it a big foodie celebrity like Rachael Ray?" I wondered. "I certainly hope so, because now I can tell her what a cheap ho she is." I walked ahead to see what was going on and it was none other than some stupid ass Dad pushing his toddlers in a double-wide stroller being completely oblivious to how people were accommodating him. The stroller was huge. It's like when he went to Babies "R" Us they asked him he'd like to "super size" it and he was so used to saying yes at McDonald's, he agreed to it and ended up with a stroller almost as big as his ass. He was probably on his way to a restaurant so he could park it between his table and the server. A few years ago, I took a picture of some ladies at my job who set up their own Stroller Wall. When I first posted the picture on my blog over two years ago, I took the time to black out their faces and made the picture very small, but now I don't care:


Bitches. What is it with these strollers, can someone explain it to me? Is it a status symbol that I just don't get? Is it a way for parents to show how much money they have to spend on their children? Please tell me.

A friend called me yesterday and asked me to please write a blog post about entitled parents. Laura is a mom of two kids ages 6 and 3. I know them well, because I took care of the six year old for almost a year when she was a baby. (Yes, I was a "manny."). She called me and said she was somewhere waiting for the cab that she had ordered. It was pouring down rain and she had the foresight to call ahead for one. She did not have her kids with her. When the car arrived, a woman came up and tried to take it. Laura explained that this was the car she had called for, but what did the lady have to say about that? "Well, do you mind if I take it? I have two kids." So having two kids in your possession allows you to steal a cab from someone? In my experience some parents think it also allows them to:

• cut in line at the bank
• get their food out faster in a restaurant
• cut in line at the grocery store
• eat food in a grocery store before paying for it
• cut in line at a movie theater
• take up three extra seats on the goddamn 7 train so their fucking diaper bag has a seat while I stand
• cut in line at the bus stop
• have free reign at a department store as their kids play under the racks of clothes
• cut in line at the department store
• and about a million other things

I am over it. Laura probably let the lady take the cab because she is nice that way. You know my ass would have given that bitch a "sorry-your-kids-are getting-all-wet" look and hopped in the cab and been on my way. But that's just me: bitchy.

A word to entitled parents: get over yourself. They're kids. No big deal. You aren't the first person to bring a life into the world. Little Johnny and Suzie are the center of your world, not ours. Yours. And stop bashing processed chicken, what did it ever do to you?


Tweet

A Comment on Comments

I can't let this comment go by without responding to it. I tried to ignore it, but I just can't do it.

Stevie said...

Ok so i watched the segiment on Dr. Phil and i think that you are ridiculous and the whole "brat ban" bullshit is stupid. You are only a waiter what the hell have you done with your pathetic life to make you think that you are someone to tell parents to take their children anywhere you are a waiter that is all so you need to learn your place in society you serve people for a living the children you are setting here trying to ban from your place of business are the same kids that you will be serving later on when they are older because you probably wont go out and try to find a real job yea being a waiter is work I've been there kids have never bothered me. But once you pass the age of 21 get a real job. The audacity of a waiter to tell parents such as myself, to take our kids somewhere else is crap. You don't know the struggles that I've have gone thru with my sons health when he was first born. My son deserves to eat anywhere with me, regardless if a "bitchy" waiter likes it or not my goodness your only a waiter know your place in society and that is serving me and my son when ever we choose to go to your establishment.

That is how i feel I have worked to get to my status in society Im probably half your age and i resent that i have worked so hard to get where i am at to have a "waiter" tell me anything. People setting here on this site saying your so cool "bitchy" your so true bitchy blah blah blah need to quit sitting around the t.v. and get themselves a life aswell we all know that you run home from your ball busting jobs that leave you with little reward, tired and wore-out well maybe if you did something with your life earlier on your have a job that you enjoy you wouldn't be so stressed when you go out to eat. You know what you are trying to keep my child out of eating in public well i guess we can try and keep all of you cry-baby ass adults outta public. It would be easier to tell yall to leave than it would to try to make children do what they don't wanna. So u know what why don't yall stay home because i am taking my son out and if yall don't like they way he acts come see me and see if yall like the way i tell yall to grow up and act your age not your status my goodness hes a waiter and yall are flocking to him like hes some kind of a saint get over it HES A DAMN WAITER. Thats it nothing more sure he makes this snazzy web page about his bitches his moans his complaints and yall set here and feed into them like yall are social parasites. Get a real life.

Dear Stevie:

Fuck you and your crotch dropping. Learn to spell. Learn punctuation. Periods are your friend; use them. I will get a "real" job when you get a real name. Stevie? Who in the hell over the age of twelve goes by the name of Stevie?

love,
BW

Dear Bitchy Waiter

Time for another installment of Dear Bitchy. I dug into the mailbag and found this question that perhaps I can shed some light on. You can email me here if you have a question that needs attention. Or email me to say hello. That's nice too.



Dear Bitchy Waiter,

I need your advice. I work at a bar and grill and for whatever reason people constantly ignore the HUGE "please wait to be seated" sign and mosey on in and seat themselves. I have tried very hard to be nice when it does happen but it has become a daily occurrence and I just can't take it anymore! What would you do?


signed,
Alicia

Dear Alicia,

Oh this problem again, with those stupid buckets of Thousand Island Dressing that we call customers. No matter how HUGE the sign is, they will not read it. They will ignore it the same way they ignore menus, their children and my crushed dreams. I once worked a restaurant with a patio which had a HUGE sign that said, "Please see the hostess if you would like to sit outside." People constantly sat directly under the sign paying no mind to it. Even if the sign had been lit up with neon and sparklers and had photos of naked men and women on it, they would ignore it. It's their way.

What can we do? Here is what I suggest: when someone sits down at a table without being seated there by a hostess, ignore the fuck out of them just like they ignored the fuck out of your sign. I have done this many times and it's very satisfying. When I see someone sit down without the proper protocol, I walk past them continuously until they practically have to pull their arm out of its socket in order to wave at me hard enough to get my attention. They will usually say something all Bucket of Thousand Island Dressing-ish like, "Uh, excuse me, but we don't have menus." My reply is then, "Oh, that's odd. I don't know why the hostess didn't give you one when she sat you. I apologize for her behavior, she does this all the time. It may be time to mention it to the manager so they can get someone in here who knows how to do her job. Thank you for bringing it to my attention. I hope she has her resumé up to date because it looks like tonight may be her last night." And then Thousand Island Family is all, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves...we don't want her to get fired...uh, we're sorry, we're dumb." Then they feel stupid and like shit and it makes me feel better.

Or maybe after sitting there for ten minutes, they'll say to me, "Uh, is someone going to take our order??" And then I can reply, "I thought this was so-and-so's table, have you been waiting long?" And then they will say, Uh, yeah, for like thirty minutes." And then I say, "He must not realize you are here. Did a hostess seat you or did you seat yourself, because that would make all the difference in the world." And then they mumble, "Oh, well, we sat ourselves here..." And then I say, "A-ha! Now we know why no one came to take your order. It's because you sat yourselves. You should always wait to be seated by the hostess so these things don't happen."

Basically, there is no way around stupid people ignoring signs and seating themselves so all we can do is try to embarrass them enough so that the next time they will do it correctly. It is highly unlikely that embarrassing them will teach them anything at all, but from our point of view it is immensely satisfying. Try it. You'll love it.

(Anonymous, this is your cue to tell me that "the customer is always right" and that I should be ashamed of myself for trying to embarrass a guest just to prove a point. But here's the thing, Anonymous: I don't care.)

Love,
BW

Please email me here if you have a question for me. I love to help people. It's in my blood. Also in my blood is a very alcohol content.


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Old Ladies Can Be Annoying

Everyone is born for a reason. Perhaps you were born to make a difference in the life of someone you have yet to meet or maybe your purpose in life is still being determined. Or it could be you were born simply to trap the baby-daddy in a relationship he didn't want because all he did was hook up with your mom one night at that club after she had too many Long Island Iced Teas followed by two Fuzzy Navels and a hit of poppers. Who knows? What I do know is this: the women who sat at table sixteen last week were born with the sole purpose of getting on my last fucking nerve. Mission accomplished, ladies.

Two old women came into the restaurant. I only call them that because they referred to themselves that way. They both had their hair in buns and they looked like they just popped in from the Amish flea market and needed a quick bite to eat before auditioning to be one of the little old ladies in The Producers. In truth, they were probably in their 50's, but they were the old kind of fifty-something, not the young cool hip fifty-something.

"Table for two, ladies?" I asked all chirpy and happy because that is my natural demeanor when wearing an apron.

Old Lady #1 cleared her throat and said, "Well, there are going to be three of us." Fine. No problem. I began leading her to a table but she stood still. I turned around to see what the problem was and she said, "One third of our party is not here yet." Well, I kinda figured that, Miss Pythagoras but thanks for the math lesson. Unless your friend is the Invisible Lady or you have her hiding in your back pocket, I assumed she wasn't here yet. I told them they could choose a table and sit wherever they wanted and I would bring them menus. This confused them.

They looked at each other and muttered back and forth, "Do you want to sit here or do you want to sit there or should we sit on the patio or inside? Oh my God I don't know what we should do." Old Lady #2 said, "Why don't we sit at that last booth?" to which Old Lady #1 replied, "But how will Old Lady #3 find us when she gets here if we sit all the way back there?"

Keep in mind this is a very small restaurant. It only has fourteen tables. It was ten minutes after we opened and there was no one else in the place. Unless Old Lady #3 was blind and/or retarded, she would easily find her friends.

After much discussion and thought, Old Lady #2 finally made the decision. Waking me up from my self-induced coma, she said, "We are going to sit at that back booth but if you see another woman come in who looks uncertain, that is our friend." So let me get this straight: if another old lady with her hair in a bun comes into the restaurant and tells me she is meeting two other old ladies who have their hair in buns, then she would be referring to you, is that it? Thanks. Got it.

By the time we eventually made it to table sixteen, it was time for me to color my roots again. They were so fucking slow, examining every table we passed as if it might be the one they should sit at instead. Before they sat down, Old Lady #1 said, "And who would we need to talk to in order to discuss the volume of the music? It's too loud and we want to be talk. We're old ladies and can't hear very well." Okay, you just fucking contradicted yourself, old lady. If you can't hear very well, then I should turn the music up, shouldn't I? Isn't the truth that you just don't like the Pandora 1980's music channel I created so that I could listen to the music of my youth while at work? Maybe she would have liked me to create a Pandora channel of music from her youth, but who in the hell wants to listen to an Andrew Sisters and Doris Day channel. (Okay, honestly, I would totally listen to that channel...) I agreed to turn down the music.

About ten minutes later I saw their friend come into the restaurant. Of course she immediately spied her friends and headed towards them. It was truly remarkable how she found them. It was like she was Christopher Fuckin' Columbus or something. She walked right to them like she knew where she was going. The bartender told me that she must have studied a map of the restaurant in advance or we decided she may have been equipped with a GPS because how else could she possibly have found her friends among all the empty tables and nobody else? The woman was a true super-sleuth with the nose of a bloodhound and the problem solving skills of Jessica Fletcher. It was amazing.

They stayed way too long and never said anything when I turned the music back up about fifteen minutes later. They were pretty self-sufficient after they got their food. Two of them had a glass of wine so that must have chilled them out. They were probably trashed and were going to leave the restaurant to go home and do some wild and crazy drunk old lady stuff like embroider pillows with with dirty sayings and can some peaches without sterilizing the lids first. They left me a good tip which I appreciated since they occupied my booth for so long. I will be ready for them the next time I see them. The booth will be prepped with a flare gun, some knitting needles and Pandora will be set to play the Top 40 hits of the turn of the century.

(And yes, they sat at table 16 even though there are only 14 tables in the restaurant. I don't know why there is no table 6 or 10 in the restaurant, but there isn't...)



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